Into the Fire
by Ten Thousand Stars
Summary: The Empire is attacking the Rebel base on Hoth, and it's time for the Rebel spacecraft to leave the hangar. Han Solo and Luke Skywalker have to say goodbye - and it might be their last.


Author's Note:  
This fic is based on Episode IV. There is an intense moment between Han Solo and Luke Skywalker that I simply had to elaborate on…  
Mild slash.

INTO THE FIRE

One Star Destroyer had been hit by the Rebel energy beams; one Rebel transport craft had successfully left Hoth. No one believed the upcoming battle would continue as smoothly. They knew they were outnumbered by far. They all knew the battle couldn't be won by military strength, but only by courage, mobility and sheer cunning.

Luke Skywalker fastened the last straps of his gear, frowning and trying to follow several trains of thought at once. The snow speeders... the transports... getting Leia out safely... Well, Leia would simply have to take care of herself; Luke had to leave the base before she did. Not that she was unable to take care of herself. Luke's worried face softened in a wry smile and he shook his head – he knew she would refuse to leave until the very last minute. She really was something, the Princess. As stubborn as anyone he had ever encountered, but also every bit as brave.

The smile left Luke's face as quickly as it had appeared. He noticed a slight tremor of his hands and thought back on the enthusiasm he had felt on that Yavin moon, when the Rebels had set out in their X-wing fighters to destroy the dreaded Death Star. Luke had been cheerfully optimistic about the daunting task. He remembered himself bragging to a fellow pilot about bulls-eyeing womp-rats from his T-16 – all that cocky self-assurance. He had been so sure their mission was not impossible; he had been so sure he was equal to the task. It felt like a lifetime ago. His enthusiasm had been replaced by determination, which would not be any less effective in battle.

He had been so young then. Young enough not to have reckoned with the number of lives that would be lost in a matter of minutes.

"But I've grown up," he thought grimly.

Well, if age and maturity could be measured in loss and painful experience, then Luke Skywalker was already an old man. And by the end of today, he would be ancient.

He didn't allow his thoughts to expand on this – he knew without putting it into words that the end of today could well be the end of his own life as well as the end of the Rebels and everyone he knew and loved.

He took a deep breath and tried to clear his mind, erase the image of Leia buried under masses of snow, of the Millennium Falcon transforming into a ball of fire against a black, starstudded backdrop...

Luke certainly wasn't unfamiliar with grief. He had lost Biggs, his best friend. He had lost his aunt and uncle; he had lost his parents when he was too young to remember.

Han... Leia. He couldn't bear the thought of losing them, too.

Action had always been the best way for him to cut off painful thoughts. Luke grabbed his lightsaber and strode briskly in the direction of the hangar.

Han Solo was concentrating deeply on a tricky bit of welding on the Falcon's scruffy right lifter – at least that was how he appeared to anyone watching.

Thoughts were whirling and colliding inside his head, and he was more nervous than he had been before any of his dodgy space journeys with doubtful cargo – and they had been many.

He had to get Leia out. Luke had, of course, taken it upon himself to go out there in a snow speeder to meet the Imperial ground attack. Han jumped as a spark flew up to hit his face, sizzling on his skin. He swore to himself. It was a matter of minutes now – he _had_ to get this working.

Leia; her stubborn, bitchy, royal high-horses-ness. He'd probably have to haul her out with the help of Chewie.

And the kid...!

Han was hit by another stinging spark and gave the metal plate in front of his feet a vicious kick. It didn't do the Falcon any good, and he heard the Wookiee grunt something at him from below. Stress was breathing him in the neck and he knew he was handling it badly, but he simply couldn't bear the thought of the kid getting himself blown up on this frozen monstrosity of a planet and be left here forever.

He swore again. Sometimes his imagination really was too vivid. It was part of what made him a roaring great pilot, but in other areas of his life, it was a curse. Now he had to shake his head to get rid of the image of Luke screaming in agony as flames devoured his damned snow speeder.

Why did that boy always take the heroics upon himself? Why did he always have to rush off in the direction his impulsive, loyal heart pointed him in?

Sometimes Han suspected it was all a game to the kid. Shooting down Imperial TIE-fighters was only the riskier version of shooting womp-rats back home on Tatooine.

Tatooine. Han's mind wandered incoherently back to the merciless heat from the two suns, the endless stretches of sand and the first time he had met Luke, in the semi-darkness of that sinister cantina in Mos Eisley. He had sneered at the kid and tried to deny the appeal of those wide, sincere eyes and the boy's energy and impatience. From that very first time, there had been something about Luke that made it impossible for Han to remain indifferent. He had tried to hide it by teasing the kid ruthlessly, by laughing at him when he practiced his lightsaber, mocking him about "the Force", baiting him about Leia and generally being superior and obnoxious. The oddest thing of all was that Luke hadn't seemed to mind. He had born the taunts and sometimes returned them as he would those from an older brother.

Han's eyes suddenly stung with more than the sparks from the welder.

"There! Try it now," he shouted to Chewbacca, who obediently flipped a switch.

The ensuing fireworks gave Han something else to think about, and he yelled and cursed and waved his arms about while Chewie pushed buttons and switches in a frenzy.

Han sensed Luke's presence before he saw him. So the time had come. Han wasn't good at saying goodbye – he hated it. He had always preferred leaving in haste or when everyone else was asleep.

"Hi, kid," he said without looking down.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Luke walk up to Chewie and reach up to scratch the fur at the Wookiee's neck in an oddly tender gesture, as if the tall figure had been a favourite dog.

"Take care of yourself," Luke said, and Chewie replied with far greater ease and earnestness than Han would have been capable of.

Han glowered at the robot that came scuttling up to him to assist with the reparations, and tried to steel himself for this goodbye, tried not to listen to Luke's voice.

Chewie's displays of affection were rare, which was something people ought to be thankful for, but he gave one now. His long arms caught Luke, who had already turned to look up at Han, and pulled him into a furry hug. It made the boy laugh with what sounded to Han like equal parts delight and embarrassment. Something cold closed around Han's heart.

"Wait a second", he barked to the robot.

Luke had extricated himself from the Wookiee and was looking up at him now, the wide eyes filled with a strange mixture of hope, confidence, determination and affection; shy and direct all at once. Something inside Han twisted itself into a coil of pain, and his face, for once, was grave. They looked at each other for an eternity, as if memorizing each other's faces.

"You alright?" Han said in a low voice.

"Yeah."

They still held each other's gaze. Luke opened his mouth to say something else, and then closed it again as if he had either decided it wasn't necessary, or felt he couldn't say it. But Han thought he understood. A small smile appeared at the corner of his mouth, and for a moment he envied Chewie his easy affection. Han wasn't in the habit of hugging people, but right now he would have given anything to be able to jump down from the Falcon, take a step forward and and embrace that annoying young man with the shining eyes and expressive face, hold him so tight they could feel each other's heartbeat and words could pass between them without a sound.

Perhaps Luke read some of this. Perhaps he felt it, too. Han certainly felt _something_ move between them, palpable as heat; like a small echo of the hot winds on Tatooine. Luke nodded, like a confirmation, and turned to leave.

"Be careful," Han said.

His voice was gruff. He wasn't a man of big words, and he knew that this was the closest he would ever get to "I love you."

"You too," Luke replied.

They exchanged one last look, both of them aware that it really could be the last one.

Han's face was dark as his eyes followed the slender, retreating figure of Luke Skywalker, who was off to throw himself into another impossible battle. And for what?

_For what, kid?_ Han wanted to throw something, kick something, demolish something. _You're a much better man than I am. I hate to admit it. If I could run away now, would I run? Hell yeah. But look at you – you walk straight into the fire._

Chewie picked up on Han's mood and let out a long, wordless howl.


End file.
